Unburdened
by unforth
Summary: A long way from home, visiting the city of Lawrence in the kingdom of Kansas, Castiel tracks down the local Sin Eater to Unburden himself of the sins he has committed. Shocked by the conditions in which the Sin Eater lives, Castiel seeks to learn how such a situation came to be even as he sees to the business that brought him to Lawrence.
1. Chapter 1

This story has been eating my brain for a week. So, I'm starting it. Having written an outline for it...it's going to be even longer than I originally thought it would be. Starting it now is almost certainly a bad idea. But screw it. I'll try to work on it interspersed with finishing Offline.

This story is based on a prompt from Writing Prompt Wednesday.

What is Writing Prompt Wednesday?

Writing Prompt Wednesday is a feature I run on my Tumblr. Followers, readers and friends suggest themes for AUs, and I come up with a list of prompts based on the suggested them. Then, based on those prompts, anyone who wants to join in writes up a short story (or a long story, I guess) and posts it to Tumblr (or AO3, or FF dot net, or wherever) and tags it Writing Prompt Wednesday! If you cross post to AO3, make sure you add the story to the Writing Prompt Wednesday Collection. You can read all the prompts on AO3 or by searching the Writing Prompt Wednesday tag on Tumblr.

This story is for Week 18: Telepathic AUs.

You can read more about Writing Prompt Wednesday and see this week's prompts on my unforth-ninawaters dot tumblr dot com.

This week, I chose this prompt:

 _Historically, a sin-eater would eat a ritual meal to assume the sins of those around them, thus exonerating the original person. With the advent of species-wide telepathy, the term has taken on a new meaning - a sin-eater is the dumping place for the telepathically projected sins of their community or family, allowing everyone other than the sin-eater to live a blissfully happy, untroubled existence, while the sin-eater suffers for all of their wrong doings and wrong thoughts. And I'm a sin-eater..._

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Archive Warning: Rape/Non-Con

Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester; Castiel/Other(s); Abaddon/Dean Winchester

Characters: Dean Winchester; Castiel; Sam Winchester; Abaddon (Supernatural)

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe – Fantasy; Top Castiel; Bottom Dean; Demon Blood Addiction; Telepathy; Telekinesis; Spy Castiel; Anal Sex; Anal Fingering; Masturbation; Other Additional Tags to Be Added; Angst; Angst with a Happy Ending; Juvenilization; Twink Dean; Virgin Dean; Bisexual Castiel; Demisexual Dean; Slow Burn; Miscommunication; Dean Has Self-Esteem Issues; Writing Prompt Wednesday; Dark; Demons; Demon Castiel; Addiction; Touch-Starved Dean; Coercion; Blood Drinking; Bloodplay; Blood Magic; Accidental Feces Ingestion; Accidental Urine Ingestion' only a little but i wanted to warn for it; Dean Whump

About the Archive Warnings:

1\. (lack of) Underage Tag: Despite early indications otherwise Dean is NOT underage.

2\. Rape/Non-con: There is no actual, physical rape/non-con in this story. Telepathy/mental communication plays a prominent role in this story, and in light of that there will be discussion of the appropriateness or inappropriateness of having fantasies involving a non-consenting person, and specifically of sharing those fantasies telepathically before consent has been obtained. As I prefer to air on the side of over-tagging, I have decided to warn for Rape/Non-con. The events in question will be consented to after the fact, for whatever that is worth. If you have concerns and would like more information, feel free to contact me on Tumblr and I'll be happy to explain.

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"Can you direct me to the home of the local Sin Eater?" After several hours of searching the neighborhoods of Lawrence, Castiel had not been able to locate where he could Unburden himself. The challenge confused him; in other cities he'd visited things were much like in his homeland far to the north. The home of the Sin Eater was centrally located, well-marked and easy to find. Contacts in Dakota had warned him that things were different in Kansas, but he'd not realized how true their words were.

"He's outside the south gate, can't miss it," snapped the shopkeeper, eying Castiel with unexpected disgust. As Castiel turned away, the man spat at Castiel's feet.

"Thank you," he stammered with what diplomacy he could muster in the face of such rudeness.

Lawrence was a large city, easily several thousand souls, homes built cheek by jowl, second floors hanging so far over the first that, as the sun lowered towards mid-afternoon, the streets were already in shadows. Uneven cobblestones were rimed with frost. The smell of refuse and rot and worse permeated the air. The joints between the stones were suspiciously damp despite days of dry weather; the reason was obvious as a housekeeper opened an upper floor window and heedlessly emptied a chamber pot, urine and feces splattering those too slow to dodge the deluge. Pigs and rats rooted in the darkest shadows, competing over discarded scraps. Metal-shod hooves clattered loudly on stone and Castiel barely jumped out of the way before a horse cantered by, splashing fetid water in all directions.

He'd been in Lawrence less than 24 hours and he already hated it.

Walking down the dreary streets, surrounded by hawkers and workers and idle children and their exhausted parents, Castiel couldn't help but contrast this kingdom with his home. As he stopped and bought a fresh loaf of bread and a hunk of yellow cheese from a man and woman pushing a cart, he wished that duty didn't take him so far from familiar haunts. Heaven perched high in the mountains. It was not an easy place to live: food was scarce and the poor often suffered for it, but the rich were _profoundly_ wealthy on the bounty of the mines and largesse was considered both a civic and moral duty. Those at the lowest rungs of society might not live well but they could live. A complex series of aqueducts pumped pure fresh snow melt from higher in the peaks down through the city and the sewers carried waste down the cliffs to fertilize the valleys below. Those condemned of crimes were tasked with cleaning the streets under the watchful eyes of their guards. The city was pristine, sparkling, a city on a hill, a beacon of light and hope for the world.

Lawrence more closely resembled the descriptions Castiel had read of the underworld. Even in the nicest parts of the city, the air was ever permeated with an undernote of decay. Filth and sin barely hid down alleyways and behind shuttered windows. Food was plentiful yet neglected, the rotten fruit left in amidst the ripe despite the danger of despoiling the bunch. He hadn't needed a warning not to drink the water in Lawrence; the semi-transparent brownish tone of the laughable, stinking liquid that came from the municipal pumps and wells was warning enough.

As Castiel approached the south gate, the homes grew more dilapidated, a far cry from the mansions and palaces that had greeted him when he'd entered the city from the west. A slight slope meant that waste flowed south and the prevailing winds reinforced the undesirable nature of the location – most of the year, his innkeeper had informed him with her nose in the air as if she smelled something repulsive, the breeze blew from north to south and carried the reek of the city with it. No one who had a choice lived in the southern district.

The city walls were immense and mightily fortified, the gate manned by a squadron of soldiers whose gleaming armor showed their pedigree and whose upturned noses showed their opinion of the portion of the citizenry they'd been tasked with guarding. Two street urchins sat on broken barrels against a wall nearby heckling the guards, playing a game that appeared to entail picking the filthiest things they could find from the ground and seeing who could flick their prizes closest to the guards without actually hitting them. No one paid Castiel any mind; his clothing was well enough made that he could pass in nicer neighborhoods as someone who'd once had money but come on hard times, little different than many a family who had a noble name but had squandered their fortunes on frivolities. The threadbare collar and sleeves of his jacket, the worn cuffs of his pants and the battered leather of his boots meant he fit in among the poorer classes too. Walking past the stationed guards and into the long, dark tunnel beneath the thick walls, Castiel felt the distinct sense of a mental probe, though none of the guards so much as looked his way as someone among their number scanned Castiel's surface thoughts for evidence of wrong-doing. Finding none relevant to their interests – Castiel had done nothing wrong, but his mental defenses were nigh impenetrable even if he had – they let him proceed.

The cloud-dimmed light of the day was bright in contrast to the perpetual gloom of the passageway beneath the stone walls. A shanty town huddled pathetically about the gate, another contrast between the poor district and the wealthy. The western gate was surrounded by a profusion of luxurious, colorful merchant's tents that made the king's road leading to the west a year-round carnival featuring all the finest from around the world. Here beggars asked alms of travelers who looked barely better off. Homes constructed of rotted boards, haphazardly stacked stones and torn fragments of burlap and cloth leaned drunkenly against their neighbors, the lot looking in perpetual danger of collapse. Castiel proceeded quickly down the rutted, muddy road, oppressed by the lowering sky, seeking among the dregs of Lawrence society for the home of the Sin Eater that was, according to his rude informant, unmissable. His frown deepened as the shantytown grew sparse, fragments of wood that might once have been crates or barrels forming low lean-tos that provided barely room for a man or woman to sleep, barely enough cover to keep off the rain, the last bastion for the most destitute. A hopeless, listless woman sat cross-legged on the dirty ground, breastfeeding a baby that she attempted to protect from the biting wind with a tattered length of cloth that he thought might once have been a skirt.

"The Sin Eater?" he asked hesitantly. Wordlessly, she pointed down the road. Winter-barren fields lined the way, interspersed with trees that served as windbreaks, skeletal branches clattering and lashing too and fro under the harsh winter gales. Castiel saw nothing that looked like a habitation, but he followed her directions, throwing her a coin that was near-valueless to him but might help preserve her life and that of her child for days, walking on before he could see her reaction. He didn't want gratitude and he didn't want his generosity acknowledged. He didn't want her to remember him at all. If he were a powerful enough telepath, he'd erase the memory from her mind, but that was not where Castiel's mental strength lay.

Perhaps a half-mile down the road, he found his destination. Thin boards were held to the small frame of a shack little bigger than some outhouses Castiel had used, rusty nails keeping the whole together so poorly that the wood rattled and clattered whenever the wind picked up. A post set in the ground outside provided hitching for a fine horse – the same Thoroughbred that had nearly run Castiel over within the town, he noticed, the mare's coat sleek and well cared for, her saddle fine-tooled leather, the blankets beneath finest wool from the eastern reaches dyed in expensive shades from the tropics far to the south. A sigil was painted above the door of the hovel, a five pointed star surrounded by a circle, edged inscribed with arcane runes. Where Castiel came from, such symbols were used to ward off or contain evil. Castiel wasn't sure what purpose it served here, as a Sin Eater was anything but evil his or herself, but it was active; it glowed faint red, as if the wood on which it was painted were embers aflame.

As Castiel stepped up to the shack, a woman emerged, tugging aside the curtain that served as a door. Castiel caught a glimpse of dark red hair framing a pale face, made to look more so by the blood-red rouge on her plush lips, before she pulled up the thick wool hood of her fine cloak, her appearance obscured beneath yards of fabric. Though she couldn't fail to observe Castiel's presence, she didn't acknowledge him; she unhitched her horse, mounted with practiced expertise, and galloped back towards the city, cloak held close around her, leaving a cloud of dust in her wake.

For a long moment, Castiel stared, first at the woman quickly disappearing in the distance, then at the pathetic hut where the Sin Eater must reside. He was horrified at the living conditions that this noble soul endured. Without a Sin Eater, the residents of Lawrence would have to live with the guilt of their crimes and misdeeds. Without a Sin Eater, even children could be trapped with a life time of remorse for the smallest of transgressions. Without a Sin Eater, society would devolve as resentment seethed and grew into hatred among those who should be loving neighbors. The duties of the Sin Eater were essential to their communities, as important as a magistrate or king or noble, hence their respected position in many kingdoms. They committed no crime themselves, did no wrong, yet they willingly took onto themselves the sins of their fellows – rich and poor, men and women, good and kind or wicked and selfish – and they kept every secret entrusted to them. A criminal might be brought to justice if they were caught and evidence brought to bear demonstrating their guilt, but a Sin Eater would turn in no one for even the most heinous crimes.

In Lawrence, they treated their Sin Eater as if he or she were unclean, as if he or she were the sinner. Why did the person tolerate such exploitation? The pathetic structure looked like a stiff wind would destroy it, the shredded cloth that served as a door swayed in even the faintest breeze. Eying the doorframe, Castiel considered the propriety of knocking.

"Come on in," called an exhausted man from within, resignation making equal parts with disinterest.

Of course the Sin Eater knew Castiel hesitated outside. Only the strongest telepaths, those most receptive to thethoughts and feelings of others, could serve as Sin Eaters. That was another reason it was a position of distinction in Heaven. Castiel could only wonder how culture had developed so differently in Lawrence.

Brushing the curtain aside, Castiel stepped into the dull interior. There was no light source, but spots and lines of sunlight cast strange, glimmering shadows where they came through pinholes and cracks in the board siding. The interior resembled the austerity of a prison cell, scarce 6 foot square and lacking even a sleeping pallet. In the faint light Castiel could make out a small, low table that tilted awkwardly, one leg shorter than the other three, a stinking bucket in the corner, and a filthy man who looked scarce older than a boy sitting on the floor behind the table. As Castiel stepped in, the Sin Eater held out a chipped wood bowl clutched in both of his hands, every wrinkle and bend of his flesh picked out in thick lines of dirt, palms wrapped in layer upon layer of mottled brown fabric. Multitudes of rags draped about his arms and body were his only protection from the bite of the cold, which passed through the clapboard like it was paper. Still, if there was not a single commonality between the appearance of this Sin Eater and those that Castiel was familiar with, the rituals were the same. Reaching into his pocket, he took out the bread and cheese he had purchased and placed them in the bowl. The Sin Eater surveyed the alms he'd been given with dull, lifeless eyes and his eyebrows lifted with what Castiel took to be surprise. It was a modest gift, and Castiel wished he had done more – the moreso now that he knew the conditions in which the Sin Eater lived – but the man appeared pleased.

"Excuse my intrusion," Castiel said formally, inclining his head. The Sin Eater's eyes widened, looking from the offered gift to Castiel and back again. "If you are amenable, I'd like to Unburden myself."

"Sure – yeah – of course," the man stammered. With a hint of wonder and curiosity in his voice, he sounded years younger, reinforcing Castiel's supposition that the Sin Eater was aged beyond his years by his role and by the neglect of the people of Lawrence. Matted scruff on his chin and cheeks hid fresh-faced youth; dimness and layers of cloth bulked out shoulders not yet broadened into adulthood. Hastily, the boy set the bowl aside and reached out across the table. Castiel sat opposite him, cold permeating the dirt ground soaking quickly through his pants and into his flesh, and took the Sin Eater's hands. The skin was gritty and dry, rough from the cold and labor. Looking up, their eyes met, the boy's shadowed in darkness and sunken with fatigue. A frisson tingled up Castiel's arms, dissipated down his chest, as the Sin Eater reached for Castiel's mind with his thoughts. Training had given Castiel defenses against unwanted mental intrusion but he let them fall away, allowed the Sin Eater access.

"One week ago, I killed a man," Castiel admitted. The words were irrelevant: the Sin Eater would pluck the experience directly from his thoughts. However, Castiel always felt better if he confessed his sins aloud. "He'd done murder in Lafayette Free Township and elsewhere." It wasn't enough that Walker had been dangerous to all innocent non-humans in his path, Castiel still felt guilty about his death. To allow a Sin Eater to expunge it when Castiel had never admitted his crime felt wrong. Intellectually and emotionally, until Castiel confessed he knew he'd done sinned. The Sin Eater would excise the emotional guilt, telepathically take it upon himself. Speaking his wrongdoing enabled Castiel to set his intellectual qualms to rest as well. He'd killed other people and committed many crimes. He'd kill many more in the future, use innocents to further his ends, engage in theft and sabotage and blackmail, do what he must to achieve his ends. If not for Sin Eaters, Castiel doubted he could live with the burden of his crimes regardless of the noble purpose that drove him.

"I don't regret what I did, but I wonder, as I wonder every time: did he have a family? Parents? Children? A spouse?" As Castiel spoke, the Sin Eater gripped his hands harder and a charge like static coursed through Castiel's veins, trailed throughout his body. "Everyone has someone who loves them, someone who will miss them when they're gone."

 _Except me_.

The Sin Eater's eyes flared brilliant green, luminous enough to cast lurid shadows over the confined room. A burst of wind jangled the loose boards of the walls and Castiel shivered. He had no idea whether the thought was his or the Sin Eater's.

"I wish I had another choice, but if I didn't take bounty cases from time to time, I wouldn't be able to afford to eat," lamented Castiel, wondering who he was making the excuse for. Himself, probably. Heaven refused to pay him for his work, citing the dangers of such payments being tracked. Plausible deniability was essential. If Castiel were caught in a foreign country bearing papers and currency from his homeland, it would be much more difficult for Heaven to claim that Castiel was an independent citizen operating on his own recognizance. That left it to Castiel to earn coin however he could, and on a job such as this one, where he expected bribery to pay a critical role, he might need a great deal of it. The money from the Walker job and his weapons were safely hidden in his dank let room in the northern quarter.

"Tomorrow, I begin my mission in Lawrence," he added, staving off the pre-emptive guilt by confessing. He'd be back to visit the Sin Eater, probably multiple times, before his mission was done. "I hope I can accomplish my goals without too many casualties and too much suffering, but time will tell."

Green light flooded the room as Castiel finished his confession and the Sin Eater excised the feelings of wrongdoing from Castiel's mind. That Castiel had done the actions remained, but there was no longer guilt associated with his crimes, nor remorse, nor regret, nor sorrow. There was merely a memory freed of all emotional baggage. The green intensified, coruscating around the Sin Eater's eyes, when suddenly the background ambiance of the room seemed to shift, a sound that wasn't a sound inverted and grew hollow, and a circular symbol Castiel hadn't observed on the floor erupted in deep red light. By the eerie glow he could see another symbol of holding burnt into the bare packed dirt of the ground. The Sin Eater gasped, blinked, and the green glow vanished from his eyes as if it'd never been. Panting, face contorted as if the symbol on the ground hurt him, the boy dropped Castiel's hands and fell backwards, curled in on himself against the far wall of the hut and whimpered.

"Are you alright?" Castiel asked, alarmed. The contact with his mind had ceased abruptly when their hands separated, though a telepath as powerful as the Sin Eater surely didn't require physical contact in order to invade a foreign mind.

"Thank you for your offering," croaked the Sin Eater, mustering words and forcing them out as if this conclusion to their interactions was normal and expected. Castiel had never seen anything like it. "You are Unburdened."

"Have I hurt you?" Castiel's concern grew, joined by glimmers of disgust, quiet fury at those who would abuse a Sin Eater so. Wasn't it enough that this man suffered the guilt and remorse that might have afflicted an entire city worth of people? Why must he live in such terrible conditions? "Is there something I can do to ease your discomfort?"

In Castiel's experience, only evil creatures, those touched by the underworld, could be bound by such symbolic devices. It was inconceivable that a Sin Eater could be such. By their very nature, Sin Eaters were the most _human_ of humanity.

"I'm fine." The Sin Eater attempted to sound harsh but his distressed body language spoke louder than his words. Castiel longed to go to him, to help him, but he was new to this place and their customs. He couldn't risk drawing attention to himself by agitating on behalf of the Sin Eater. "Leave now. Please."

"Of course. My apologies, honored Sin Eater," Castiel rose quickly and bowed. The boy's eyes widened; by the light of a split in the walls, Castiel could see they were a dull, deep green, bloodshot and old far beyond his apparent youth. "Until next time."

Rather than risk discomfiting the Sin Eater further, Castiel left, resolving as he brushed the curtain aside and stepped into the late day shadows that he would return as soon as he had a sin fit to confess and he'd bring far more than mere bread and cheese as an offering.

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End note:

I honestly have no idea how long this story will be. I thought it was going to be around 30k or 40k words when I first imagined it but when I wrote this first chapter (unusually short for me, I know!) I ended up adding like four major plot elements that I hadn't originally planned, and my outline is pretty long (...like 18 items...) and it feels like I'm still missing some pieces, so it'll likely get more complicated before it gets less. As such I wouldn't be surprised if it ends up considerably longer.

Just what I need. Another long idea. (I actually debated not posting this at all - it wouldn't be the first time I wrote the introduction to a long story and then held off on posting it until I'd have time to work on it - but oh well. I love this idea and I'm gonna share the damn thing. I was actually thinking that when I finished Offline I'd go through and just finish off all the stubs I've got on my comp and post them all, even if they're just the first chapter of what will ultimately be a long WIP, if only so I can gauge interest and figure out what I should focus on next...thoughts?)

No idea when more chapters will be up. Sorry about the proliferation of WIP, but I just have so many damn ideas...

For updates, fanart, lgbtqa stuff, and whatever other random stuff I feel like posting, follow my on tumblr at a href=" .com"unforth-ninawaters dot tumblr dot com/a!


	2. Chapter 2

Please note that I've added a whole mess of new tags. This story is going to be considerably darker than I originally was thinking. (I plotted it all out during four days of driving while I was on vacation last week). If you are reading on FF dot net all warnings/tags are in the author's note on the first chapter.

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Setting the bowl aside, Dean reached his hands across the table. He tried not to think about the appearance and smell of the meager offering the man had given him. The potato was obviously soft, green mold festering around the sprouted eyes. Even were it fresh Dean had no choice but to eat it raw, ensuring indigestion, but there was no point in contemplating it, nothing to be accomplished with empty complaints. Food was food. Without the offerings, be they ever so rotten and disgusting, Dean didn't eat. Having starved a few times, he didn't begrudged even the most disgusting alms. Everything Dean had was at the sufferance of those who deigned to come to him to Unburden themselves. If his visitors didn't fill the well bucket and bring it to the shack for him, he didn't even have water to drink. It was a hard life, but Dean didn't let himself think on that, either.

Something flickered tauntingly at the corner of Dean's vision and he struggled to ignore it as he ought to. He knew every feature of the small room that had been his home for years and he _knew_ that there was nothing there. The barely-seen vision shifted, moved, passed behind him – he could feel it watching him, his skin prickling with goose pimples, the hairs on the back of his neck stirring with horror. Determinedly, he didn't turn to look didn't even glance back. He fixed his gaze on the chin of the man before him, drew his arms back slightly, held them out further with resignation.

The man sneered with disgust at Dean's cloth-wrapped, swollen, filthy hands and didn't reach for him. Water was too precious and scarce for Dean to waste any on washing himself. Avoiding the condemnation writ large on the man's face, Dean's eyes drifted down, took in the man's clean, soft hands and his pristine clothing, folds ironed to perfect pleats. Of late, many people's clothing had been pressed like that, a far cry from the fashion when he'd first become Sin Eater; not that he'd ever had much interest in such things but when he'd been bound most clothing had been loose and flowing, the fit achieved with belts and ropes, ensuring clothes could be produced cheaply and in quantity. The rich had bespoke garments, but a man like this – a tradesman or merchant, Dean guessed – would most likely buy things pre-made, unless he was wearing items crafted for him by a family member. Not that the wardrobe choices of the Sinners who visited him mattered, but how people dressed was something to look at, something to consider during the long solitary hours of Dean's exile, something _real_ ,something to focus on other than the revulsion twisting the man's face and the hesitancy with which he reached for Dean and the will-o-the-wisp of light and movement yet hovering at the edges of his sight. Finally, the man's mouth twisted, his nose scrunched up, and with the air of someone steeling themselves to touch filth, he brushed his palms against Dean's fingers, shuddering at the chill that pervaded Dean's flesh all winter.

… _vile human being – no, this vile_ thing _. I hate having to come here. I hate having to touch_ it _. If it's so powerful, can't it read my mind without contact? No, that's why it's trapped here: to prevent it accumulating too much power, prevent it from intruding on the minds of the innocent. As nauseating as having to come into contact with it is, it's for the better that it needs to touch me. That's the only way I know I'm safe from it._

Dean schooled his expression to slack neutrality. Nothing the man said was unfamiliar to him. Dean had heard every condemnation before, every expression of horror and loathing, every accusation that he was an abomination, seen every varied symptom of repugnance. Dean was suffered to exist only because of the city's need for his services.

 _Let's get this over with_.

Steeling his will, Dean prepared for the onslaught of whatever this man had done that caused him such regret that he would come to the Sin Eater to expunge it.

The memory was vivid, colors over-bright and saturated, and reminded Dean of the traveling carnival that his parents had once taken him and his brother to. Dean watched the scene unfold from the man – Jack's – point of view: the most beautiful woman in the world, careworn, gray streaking her hair, sagging bosom held in place by a simple bodice in the belted style Dean recalled, pudge at her waist not entirely obscured by the ample folds of her skirt. The man's mother, Dean picked up from the whispers of thought that accompanied the images. Her face streamed with tears. Jack yelled at her – the words were largely forgotten but the intent remained; fury, relentlessness and aggression lingered loud in the man's mind. The justification of his argument still resonated with him, but where he'd previously raged about it, now he recalled it with grief and guilt. It'd been a year since his father, her husband, had died. _I can't support you any longer. You're an adult, for godssake, it's time that you act like one and take care of yourself. I've got my own family to look after!_ Jack's shame and unhappiness grew the longer the memory stirred; the colors muted and grew dank, the sky grew clouded, the woman's skin became wan, her clothing browned.

 _I've always taken care of you without question, without reservation! He was your father! He loved you! I love you too!_

 _It's not about love, it's about the bottom line. I can't afford to help you any longer._

Jack had sent his own mother out to live on the streets, destitute and alone. He'd not seen her since that day – or had it been night? The memory had grown so dark it was impossible to tell. The leaves on the trees and the vibrant flowers wilted to dust under the force of Jack's guilt, suggesting that the argument had taken place months before, during the spring or summer.

 _He treated her terribly. He betrayed his family. He deserves this guilt._

 _But so do I._

With a shudder, Dean called on his enhanced telepathy. Long practice made his task simple though his powers responded sluggishly. Guilt was so solid, so tangible, so _heavy_ that it was easy to separate it from the rest of the Jack's remembered emotions. As Dean worked, the colors returned to the man's mental image, the words remained but the sense that they were wrong faded. Jack would still feel concern for his mother but he'd no longer feel oppressed by what he'd done wrong. Dean's own sense of oppression was so permanent, so pervasive, that there was no way this relatively small drop could add to it. As he finished, Dean's vision cleared to show him the room shaded in a dire red glow but he'd grown so diminished that the containment symbol scarce pained him. It had been too long since Lady Sands had come to visit him; he was sick with weakness and it was more than just his exposure to the cold and his perpetual undernutrition.

The memory of a taste, a smell, a touch, a mind that brushed on his gently, flooded Dean for a moment. The bread was fragrant and fresh, rich with wheat and yeast; the cheese was creamy with a tangy bite that tingled on his tongue. The man hadn't flinched when he'd reached for Dean's hands; his mind had touched Dean's kindly, not a single condemning word, only confusion and sympathy, a blank lack of understanding of Dean's punishment.

 _Castiel. His name was Castiel._

It had been some time since that visit – Dean didn't know how long, but the season had grown colder, the occasional glances he had of the outside world showed winter-bare branches and grasses dried brown. When he woke up in the morning now, the bucket that served as his chamber pot was frozen, the disgusting contents rimed with frost. Once, he'd try to keep track of the passing of the hours, the passing of the months, but as it became clear that he'd never be free, never be forgiven, never be _Dean_ , he'd given up. An endless progression of days came and went, the seasons ran through their annual cycle, and Dean didn't care. How many years went by meant nothing to him.

"Let me go, you…you…you _cretin_ ," snarled Jack. Startled, Dean separated his thoughts from Jack's, jerked his hands free, tumbled away, his back striking the boards of the shack behind him with a clatter. The symbol on the floor sputtered red that waxed and waned, highlighting his prison in ominous shadows, reflecting off the _something_ that Dean _had_ to believe wasn't real. The glow meant little beyond that Dean's powers were active. Dean was no less a captive when the symbol was inert. "What did you do to me?" Jack's voice grew shrill with fear and alarm. " _What did you take from me_?"

"Nothing!" Dean stammered. The crimson light thrummed agony behind his eyelids, drove into his brain like spikes heated to incandescence. "I didn't take anything!" These were mild symptoms; when Dean's telepathy activated more powerfully the symbol seared through him like he was being continuously burnt to ash. If not for that pain, Dean could use his powers to contrive to escape. "Only the guilt from the memory of your mother and—"

" _Don't you talk about her_ ," the man shouted, spittle splattering on Dean's face. The symbol's power died away as Dean's telepathy grew dormant, the pain ebbed, and Dean struggled to keep his relief from showing on his face. In the faint late afternoon light, the man's face was flushed furious red – lingering shame redirected at Dean in the form of violent revulsion. Jack's hands flexed into fists, relaxed, flexed again as he struggled with himself, and finally with a roar of anger he grabbed Dean's bucket and upended it over Dean's head. Filth matted down his hair, splashed into his eyes, trickled into his mouth, soaked his clothes. Rivulets cut through the dirt on the floor without smudging the burnt-in containment symbol. Dean's shoulders slumped miserably. There was no point in fighting back, no point in resisting, no point in trying to clean himself. Resistance only made life worse. Jack's fury surged when Dean didn't rise to the challenge; he hurled the bucket at Dean, so angry that he missed despite their proximity, and stormed out, tearing the curtain down behind him. A frozen wind swept the room through the vacant doorway; as scant as the cloth had been, it had served as modest obstruction to the elements. Now there was nothing, and Dean shivered as the urine splattered all over him steamed and grew icy.

With a defeated sigh, Dean removed the outer layer of his rags. Only parts of the cloth were sodden; he used a dry area to mop up his face, scrub his hair, and then he balled it up and hurled the useless cloth out the door. The smell was lodged in his nose and no amount of rubbing at himself with his equally disgusting clothing would fix that. The bucket had struck the back wall forcibly and, decrepit as it was, been reduced to its component pieces: a handful of thin slats, a circular disk, and two metal hoops that had once held the lot together. The nails were so rusted that there was no repairing it. Tears pooled in Dean's eyes. It hadn't been much of a bucket, but it had been a gift from a relatively benign Sinner who had come to Unburden themselves and as small a luxury as it was, it had made a world of difference for Dean. To many, the difference between pissing in the corner and pissing in a bucket might seem negligible, but to Dean it had afforded a level of civility and cleanliness that had substantially improved his life. When he was constantly surrounded by his own waste, he'd felt like an animal. With the bucket, he had almost felt human.

That had always been a dangerous illusion to fall victim to.

Incongruously, Dean's stomach rumbled. Even being doused in feces and urine couldn't repress how hungry Dean had grown. Disgusted with himself, he nonetheless turned back to his small table to retrieve the bowl stashed underneath it. He reached down and his fingers splashed in reeking, frigid water. The potato was completely submerged in runoff from the bucket. For a horrible moment, Dean actually considered whether it was still edible.

 _Only an animal could be so indifferent to all civilized norms._

A tear tracked through the layers of grime coating his face.

"My, my, don't you make a pathetic sight?" Lady Sands' voice was rich and warm and completely indifferent to his actual suffering. He looked up to see her beautiful form silhouetted against the gaping maw of the door: auburn hair and crimson lips and a dress tailored to show every one of her impressive curves. Her flawless appearance was as much of an illusion as Dean's dimming hopes of retaining his humanity. "I've got some Sins for you to eat, Sin Eater." Dean refused to dignify her jesting tone with a serious answer. Dean didn't truly eat sins, he excised guilt. Lady Sands would have to _feel_ guilt for the dreadful things she did before Dean could relieve her of her burdens. Dean might be an animal but Lady Sands was a monster. "Not going to offer to Unburden me? You have stayed such a _pretty_ boy, underneath all that vagrant-chic you've donned. I hear brown rags are the latest fashion among the Southies." She stepped into the hovel, sashaying her hips suggestively at every step. As soon as she cleared the doorway, her nose wrinkled in disgust. "Never mind. I'd have to drowned you in a pond to make the stench go away."

"What can I do for you today, milady?" he asked. Exhaustion and grief and frustration warred for supremacy in his mind; he didn't have the energy to play her games, not today, not ever.

"I believe what you _should_ be asking is what _I_ can do for _you_." All sense of her disgust vanished. She'd seen worse, done worse, than faced a man perfumed by his own refuse. Sometimes, when she wanted to taunt him, she'd share her latest sins with him, not in pursuit of absolution but as a reminder of the price that Dean had paid – the price that Dean continually paid – and what Dean condoned by his very existence.

"Why bother?" he sighed. "You're either going to give it to me or you're not. What I say or do has never affected your behavior before, why should I expect things to be different this time?"

"But you sound so _sweet_ when you beg," she pouted, eyes going absurdly wide.

"No."

Gazing dramatically up at the leaky roof of the shack, Lady Sands dropped into an exaggerated slump, knees loose, back bowed, and raised a hand to her forehead. "Alas, I've pushed you too far once again!" Her eyes went hard, vicious, inhuman and solid black. "You know, you can opt out any time. The price hasn't changed…"

"Never," he snapped.

"There's my boy's fire," she crowed enthusiastically. "It's been almost three weeks – you're holding out well this time. Had any withdrawal symptoms yet?"

He had, though he'd never tell her so. The hallucinations had started the previous night, visions of the parents who had abandoned him, of the brother he'd sacrificed everything to protect, the friends who'd forgotten him, the ghost at the edge of his vision that he didn't dare look at lest he be confronted by those he had abandoned – those who had abandoned him. None of them had ever come to visit Dean. None of them had ever come to visit the Sin Eater. They had no need of his services. They didn't feel guilt over his fate.

"Please, Dean, throw me a bone here." She was the only person he ever spoke with that used his name. He didn't think anyone else in the world remembered it. He wasn't a person, he was a role. He was the Sin Eater. "Do you have the muscle aches? The cravings? How about the paranoia? That one is always my favorite. Well, at least until the later stages. There is something _charming_ about reducing a grown man or woman to the point where they bleed out of their eyes and nose and ears, after all."

"Please." The word slipped from Dean inadvertently. He didn't want to beg. He didn't want to give her the least satisfaction. But, despite everything he'd been through, despite his horror of the winter to come and his fear of losing toes to frostbite and his bitterness at being left alone and the ocean of guilt that every day threatened to drown him, Dean didn't want to die.

"What was that?" she taunted.

"Please, Lady Sands," he schooled himself to humbleness. This was the least he could do. Of course, she knew that as well. "Please. I need it. You know I need it. I can't continue the work without it."

"And you wouldn't like that?"

"No," he forced out his answer. It wasn't exactly a lie. At least as Sin Eater sometimes he helped people. Many came to him who felt guilty over things they shouldn't, such as fighting back against someone who'd been abusing them or defending themselves against a bully. They lamented their inability to do more to help the needy or were ashamed that they'd lived through an epidemic while another had died. Sometimes, people deserved absolution for their sins, deserved the chance to move on and continue their lives. An image of that Castiel man flashed through his head, skin tanned, cheeks shadowed with stubble, eyes reflecting blue in the harsh red light of the containment symbol. He'd murdered someone, but the man he'd killed had been evil. People like Castiel deserved forgiveness, deserved redemption.

They were nothing like Dean.

Staring down Lady Sands, he waited for her to continue.

"You know," she said consideringly, "in some ways I think you're the most remarkable person I've ever met, Dean. After everything you've lived through, everything you've experienced, you can sit there coated in shit and frozen piss, dirty to the bone, burdened with every crime committed by a city's worth of the forsaken, and still stare at me with such _pride_. I've never had you under a knife but you are my finest work, if I do say so myself. You're like a son to me, you know."

Bullshit. The first time Lady Sands came to him after they made their deal, she'd described to him in visceral, exhaustive detail everything she had done to her son – or, rather, to the boy who had been the woman's child. Whoever or whatever possessed Lady Sands now, the original Lady Sands was long dead if there was any mercy in the world. When Dean had struggled to visualize what she was describing, she'd enhanced his already strong telepathy enough that he could experience the deeds as if he'd done them himself. Thus joined, she'd shared every vividly beloved memory of the poor man's torment.

 _What of my life would ever lead me to believe that there is an ounce of mercy anywhere? The poor woman probably knows exactly what her captor did to her child._

"Give it to me or leave," said Dean. His mind was capacious and a side effect of his abilities was an eidetic memory. After all, the sins weren't truly exculpated if they were forgotten, so Dean remembered everything, all the horrors and the pain and the guilt.

 _No, there is some kindness and decency and generosity. Castiel brought me bread and cheese. Others have shown me amity. It is rare, but it has happened. I can't give up on them, even if they've given up on me._

Lady Sands pouted, her full lips red as blood in the failing light. "Fine. This time. But you owe me, Dean. I expect you to be more entertaining in the future." She said that every time they reached this point. Ultimately, she always got what she wanted. "Give me your bowl."

"No, not—"

" _Give it to me_ ," she snapped, deep and sinister and irresistible. Repressing a whimper, Dean obeyed, sloshing the fetid contents of the bowl on to the floor and passing it to her. She held an arm to her face, dug her teeth into the flesh and tore at her skin. A thick flow of arterial blood flooded out and Dean's world flipped, vertigo and need clawing at his reason. The tantalizing vision just out of his sight laughed and taunted him. He'd held the longing at bay but now that she was bleeding, now that he could smell the copper tang in the air, feel the heat that her body gave off, it was all he could do not to surge across the space dividing them and suck the precious fluid directly from her veins. He held still, though, shaking with need. As soon as she moved the bowl from beneath the crimson flow, he lunged for it.

"Stop!" she commanded and Dean froze. He couldn't resist her words. Her blood gave him power, but it also gave her control of him. It was impossible for him to go against her. "If you touch me, I _will_ void our deal. You know that."

 _But I need it, Saints Above, please, I need it so much, right now – right now – give it to me, please_ … He restrained his desperation to a pitiful mewl and forced himself back to the ground. Lady Sands licked along her open wound, smearing her lips and chin with blood, and smiled at him, a twisted, cruel expression that brought a sadistic light to her black eyes.

"Good boy," she purred. The bowl clattered against the wooden table top, a few drops of precious liquid sloshed out and Dean's stomach turned. A thin skim of something unspeakable coated the surface of the blood, the combined smells a noxious miasma. "Now be a good boy and take your medicine." Hands trembling uncontrollably, Dean reached for the bowl. He hated her for what she'd done to him, what she'd done to his family. He hated himself for needing this. No wonder his parents and Sammy never visited him. Thank the _Gods_ they never visited him. As terrible as it was that _anyone_ saw Dean in this state, that those he loved might see his degradation was too horrible to contemplate.

The liquid trembled and rippled as he lifted the bowl, brought it to his lips, and swallowed the contents. In the first instant, foulness coated his mouth, but then the sour-sweet heat of Lady Sands' tainted blood struck his tongue. A burst of energy surged through him, purged him of the debilitating aches and pains that had accumulated so slowly he'd scarce noticed them, cleared his head instantly. It wasn't late afternoon. It was sunny mid-morning, the air was warmer than he'd thought, and his hovel stunk even worse than he'd imagined possible. The scum in his mouth tasted even more foul, turned his stomach even worse, but he sealed his lips, clenched his teeth and held back vomit. Filth aside, he _needed_ this. He'd die without it, or so Lady Sands said. After how he'd felt during the times she'd deprived him of it for even longer, he no longer doubted.

When he looked up from the bowl, Lady Sands was gone. The demonic trap that bound Dean to the hut was not nearly powerful enough to contain her. Red drops domed, glistening, on his table and beaded on the floor beneath where she'd been standing, tops coated with dust. Unable to control himself, Dean bent down to the table and sucked up each precious morsel, crawled on the floor to lick up Lady Sands' blood from the dirt. It was impossible to know how long she'd make him wait before she came to him again. It might be days or it might be weeks. By the time she returned he might be so weak that those wishing to Unburden themselves would have to sit beside his prone body and take up his limp hand. Power buzzed beneath his skin, cracked, urged him to use it, to reach out and find another mind and wrap himself, however briefly, in the life of someone whose existence was even marginally less awful than his. He didn't dare, though. The mere thought of doing so triggered his re-charged powers and the symbol beneath him pulsed a warning of the consequences should he attempt to extend his reach beyond his tiny, horrid demesne. Dean's head throbbed and he tamped down on the urge, struggled to contain the inhuman strength of the demonic blood in his mortal vessel.

His stomach grumbled loudly. Drinking demonic blood did nothing to slake actual hunger. Lady Sands could feed him every day and he'd still starve to death. Lying on the ground, buried in self-loathing that he'd actually licked the damned floor in order to obtain more of her thrice-damned blood to fuel his endlessly damned life, the rotted potato caught his eye.

 _I_ could _eat it…_

 _No. Not yet. But I'll save it, to have in case I get hungry enough. Anything is better than nothing._

Tears splashed into the dust beneath him, but Dean didn't bother to move. There was no point. There was nowhere to go, no one to visit, nothing to care about. His prison cell was a three pace square of dilapidated, moldering, flimsy boards. Dean had been trapped there so long he scarce remembered what freedom felt like, a distant dimming memory that had lost all meaning and value. The boy who'd once walked beneath the bright sunshine was dead. Dean was the wraith that remained, stretched thin, name forgotten beneath his title and his duties. All that was left of him was his original directive.

Everything he did, everything he'd become, had a single purpose.

 _I must protect Sammy._

For his little brother, there was no sacrifice great enough, no price Dean wouldn't pay. Sam was safe and free and presumably happy. All else was irrelevant.

Dean was irrelevant.

* * *

Endnote:

...yeah.

Also I'm sorry that I haven't updated Offline yet. I've had a hell of a lousy week in a lot of ways (it's had some bright spots also but still) and I've been too tired to force myself to work on something I don't feel passionate about (don't get me wrong I like Offline and I'm proud of the SextersAnon verse but I've been working on it for months and I'm almost done and being near the end but not quite there always brings some burn out with it). I've got part of the next chapter written and I'll be focusing on that before I work on this more, so just bear with me please!


	3. Chapter 3

So...like...literally four days ago I told someone that I had no idea when I'd be updating this story but that it wouldn't be soon? But I've had a rough week and when I sat down to write the fluffy smutty happy ending that Halflings has coming...I just couldn't. My brain wasn't in that happy place. Given how...meh...I felt, Unburdened seemed like the perfect story to work on. (In general, the more down I feel, the angstier, darker stuff I want to write).

Surprise, new chapter!

In case you haven't seen the tags, there is NON-DESTIEL sex (mostly hetero, I expect) in this story (and in this chapter) between Castiel and various others, though it is not described in detail.

* * *

With a click and a faint grinding sound, the lock mechanism gave way at Castiel's incorporeal touch. It had taken years of practice before Castiel had the fine manipulation to work such delicate tasks, years more before he had the tactile sense through his telekinetic reach to feel what he was doing effectively, but the effort had been worth it. He needed neither tools nor touch to pick a lock or steal a document or open a window from the inside while he remained without. He'd staged more than one death in a room that no one could possibly have gained entry to, left many a mystery behind him. Telepathy was common; telekinesis was rare, and control on the level Castiel had was unheard of. The door slid open with a waft of air redolent with fresh straw and oats and sweat and horse waste gusted out. Castiel slipped into the stable and telekinetically pulled the door shut behind him, surrounding the hinges with air deadened by his power to muffle any sound they might make.

Thus far, Castiel's attempts to find his target had met with no success but he was optimistic this time would be different. His interview with the Lady of the house had gone excellently and he'd seen many subtle signs that, if she was not the one he sought, she was the first link of the chain that would lead him to the mastermind. There were hints that no one outside of his line of work would recognize: a decorative motif of scorpions around the lintel over the door, the miasma of rotten eggs emanating from the refuse pile by the servants' door in the back alley, and symbology carved into the woodwork of the household furniture. None of the evidence was conclusive, however. Given that Castiel had _seen_ Lady Sands as she left the Sin Eater – he'd recognized her as soon as their interview had commenced, though several weeks had passed – he doubted that his scant evidence pointed to her as the culprit. No one possessed by the enemies of Heaven would confess their sins or seek to have their guilt revoked. Further, the symbol over the door of the Sin Eater's hut, the symbol inscribed on the floor of the hovel, would have trapped her if she were evil.

 _Why did it contain the Sin Eater_?

It was a troubling question, one that Castiel turned over in his mind as he stealthily crept down the center aisle of the stable. Sleeping horses breathed heavily, heaved like bellows, snorted and stomped, noisy enough to cover the faint rustle as Castiel trod over the straw-covered floor. The stable was pitch dark; Castiel extended a filament network of telekinetic strands into the air around him and navigated by feel.

A snore brought him up short, close though Castiel hadn't realized there was a person present. Castiel pushed his senses outward in a bubble around himself, creating a mental map of the room he'd never seen before. Stalls lined the walls around him, each containing a horse. Overhead, a loft held supplies and provided an adequate, if cold, bedroom for a groom. The woman was deeply asleep, but Castiel nonetheless waited until he was sure that she'd settled once more into easy rest, snores soft and even with every breath. When he was sure she wouldn't rise, he proceeded confidently, now able to easily visualize the entire space. There was a second door before him; the first had led him from the streets into the stable and this one admitted him to the interior courtyard of Lady Sands' high-walled city estate. Effortlessly lifting the latch with his mind, Castiel stepped out into the night, sliding the door shut behind him.

Silvery moonlight seemed bright after the dark of the building's interior. A breeze blew air that only seemed fresh by comparison to the funk in the stable. Even in the wealthiest quarter of the city, little concern was taken to keep the streets pleasant. Heavy incense and perfumes served to make the homes of the rich habitable; they cared nothing for what others had to suffer. The winter-bare shrubs and trees of Lady Sands' small garden loomed ominously in the dark, none tall enough to rise over the elegant yet functional riverstone walls that enclosed her complex. Quickly, Castiel crossed the goat-trimmed grass to the narrow door that led to the kitchens. It had been difficult to take a full survey of Lady Sands' home during his interview, but he'd gotten a sense of the general layout. Unlike many similar homes, the kitchens were not in an out-building, instead housed in a wing built off the side of the main manor, atop which a patio had been built. Heat from the stoves spread by means of pipes and vents to the rest of the house; as he approached the wall Castiel felt the warmth of the interior as a faint glow on his skin, a contrast to the frigid cold of the night.

"You came!"

A shadow detached from the darkness alongside the building as a breathy, light female voice whispered into the night. The young woman had served Lady Sands' chambers as the noblewoman had interviewed men and women to be her clerk: maintaining the fireplace, bringing food and drink that Castiel hadn't dared touch, taking away dirty dishes, seeing to Lady Sands' every need. Subtlety hadn't been the servant girl's strong point, but fortunately it was Castiel's. He'd schooled his thoughts to desire and interest and curiosity when he'd noticed her giving him the side-eye with an aroused flush. He knew she was listening in by her reactions, the flush deepening as she picked up his supposedly stray thoughts, while on the exterior he still appeared engaged by his interview. As he'd hoped, Lady Sands instructed the young woman – Ava was her name – to show Castiel out when the interview was done. Quick words had secured her interest, and now he swept close to her and kissed her with practiced, manufactured passion. Her body was hot, though her fingers were chill as they curled around his neck.

"Wow," she whispered dazedly against his lips.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet me." He lowered his voice to simulate desire. She held no interest for him. Her appearance and personality were antithetical to his usual taste; she was willowy, round faced, bright-eyed, young, vapid, female. Sweet enough, clearly kind, and naïve. Castiel felt bad for taking advantage of her affections, but the mission came first. Ava was a means to an end, nothing more.

They stumbled into the kitchens, progress slowed by interludes of enthusiastic kissing. While appearing engrossed in pleasuring her, Castiel took note of everything he passed, using his telekinetic senses to map out the general layout of the manor: the kitchen, the hallway, the first floor parlors, the servants' staircase, the second floor family and guest quarters, the third floor warren of tiny rooms where the help lived. It was a large house, solidly constructed, warm, furnished expensively and in what passed for good taste among the wealthy of Lawrence, staffed by a dozen or more servants. Without telepathic skill, it was difficult to assess how many people were in residence, but the right post-coital questions would establish that easily enough.

Making love to Ava was boring. Castiel was clearly not her first – he scratched _naïve_ off his list of her perceived personality traits. For all that she acted like an innocent young thing, she moved with practiced skill in the bedroom. Responsive but quiet, she at least was an engaged lover, and by far not the worst Castiel had entertained over the years, but when she'd finished, stifling the breathy moans of her climax with a blanket pulled over her face, he pretended to do the same and wasn't sorry to withdraw his dick from her hot, wet heat.

"You're a great clerk," she tittered, eyes blinking unseeingly in the dark, close room. "I hope my Lady hires you."

"Do you think it likely?" he asked.

"Oh, my, yes," she said. "I've been present for many of the interviews. My Lady makes no secret of when she doesn't like someone. That she entertained you so pleasantly, for as long as she did? I think…I _hope_ she'll hire you."

"Is it a difficult job?" Castiel gently pushed in the direction he needed the conversation to go. Ava shimmied onto her side on the narrow bed, giving Castiel room to lie beside her, wrap hands around her shoulders and gently massage away the stress of her day. She sighed out a contented noise and relaxed, face nearly pressed to the wall to enable them both to fit, and shimmied her ass against his fading erection.

"No," she breathed. "Lady Sands is a kind mistress. I love working here."

If Ava truly believed that, she was the only one who did. Lady Sands' reputation among the poor of the city was as a cruel, indifferent woman with no interest in those beneath her. She ran through servants quickly, though Castiel could find no one who had formerly been in her employ. Another strike against her – where had her former employees gone? No one knew. Perhaps a member of her household was Castiel's target?

"Have you served her long? Does she work her staff mercilessly?"

"Only four months," confessed Ava. "At times we are quite swamped, but usually things are quiet. My Lady has a large social circle but she rarely entertains long-term guests. Only herself and her friend Ms. Masters live here full time, since my Lady's son died." Nerves twanged in Castiel's head. Ava had given him all the information he wanted, scarce prompted. It was rarely so easy. Perhaps she sensed his curiosity, his desire to know more? Perhaps she was merely talkative? Behind his carefully maintained mental barriers, his thoughts raced. Ava twisted in his arms, tucked her face against his cheek, wrapped her arms around her neck, pressed bare breasts against his flat chest. "I hope she hires you. The nights have been so _cold_ since I started here." Her voice trailed off, softer and softer as she whispered. By the time she fell quiet her breathing had evened out, and ten minutes later, Castiel was sure she was asleep.

Worming his way free of her embrace without waking her proved challenging, but with the aid of telekinesis to prop up her sagging limbs and maintain her in position as if she yet leaned against Castiel, he was able to rise. Patiently, by increments, he eased her down until she slept easily despite his absence. When he was sure she would not awaken, he slipped out her door and back into the house.

Ava was a sweet girl. She deserved better than him. She deserved better than to serve Lady Sands.

Unless she was deceiving him.

Always possible.

Castiel ghosted through the house, silent and quick, as his mind turned over the new information. So far, everything he'd seen and heard confirmed his suspicions about Lady Sands' household, but everything he'd learned thus far was circumstantial. He'd think the Lady herself a demon had he not seen her step out of the Sin Eater's bewitched home. Before he could begin his espionage in truth, before he could commit to a job to further his investigation, he needed proof.

The third floor of the house was configured as a dormitory. A long hallway was broken at regular intervals by doors and partitioned into a dozen rooms that, as far as Castiel's telekinetic exploration could tell, were nearly identical. In all but one, a person slept, and Castiel moved on. Servants might be part of whatever wrongs Lady Sands committed, might be important in her schemes, might even be part of the plotting – Castiel wasn't a fool and wouldn't overlook someone simply because of their station in life – but given the low status of such people in Lawrence it was unlikely that they could be behind the activities that Castiel investigated. The cramped staircase led upstairs and down. Castiel quickly mounted to the attic. Darkness made his task difficult, but by the dim light and dusky shadows cast by the two small windows, he made out an enormous, slop-ceilinged space crowded with unfashionable furniture of the finest make. It wouldn't do for a woman of Lady Sands' stature to be seen hosting a salon in a room furnished in _last year's_ textiles. For the sake of thoroughness, Castiel did a cursory search of the detritus, but he found nothing incriminating.

Spacious guest rooms filled the second floor of the house, most vacant, doors standing open. Castiel investigated each briefly, used his telekinesis to silently open desk drawers, check along fireplaces for loose stones, and feel under floorboards for hidden compartments. He found nothing. As Ava had indicated, only two bedrooms were in use: the master bedroom and one of the guest rooms. Perhaps Margaret Masters, Lady Sands' long term guest, was behind the many signs of evil that Castiel had seen. He was tempted to infiltrate her room, but the risks of intruding while the inhabitant lay asleep was too great, so Castiel moved on.

The parlors and public rooms of the first floor were given the same inspection, but again, Castiel found nothing, until he pulled open a door he thought would lead to a small water closet and instead found a staircase leading down. Surprised, Castiel peered uneasily into the pitch darkness, but he couldn't see even of a shadow of what lay below. He'd not been in Lawrence long but he'd learned that cellars were unusual and few homes had them. Residents spoke darkly of ghosts and floods and mishaps and bad luck but would give no definite answers as to why the homes lacked underground storage. Reaching before him telekinetically, using his power as a surrogate set of hands with which to feel along the walls and stairs, Castiel tried to determine what lay below, but as far as he could tell there was nothing. The stairs lead down into a small square room – he thought the walls and floor stone – containing nothing. It was improbable that anyone would go to the effort of constructing such a space to no purpose. Steeling himself to face the endless darkness that might conceal anything, Castiel descended slowly, carefully down, shifting his weight to avoid any creaks, using his powers to pull the door shut behind him.

It felt like descending into a tomb.

The basement was claustrophobically small. Even with no sight to guide him, Castiel could feel the walls closing in, close enough that he could touch them if he reached out in any direction, up, down, left, or right. He didn't risk doing so, though. Instead, he unnecessarily closed his eyes, as blind with them shut as with them open, forced away the unpleasant sense of oppression, the smell of an open grave that he wasn't convinced was his imagination, the feeling of cobwebs and spider feet creeping over his body and prickling every follicle. Expanding his senses, he reached out. There must be _something_. The stone appeared solid, and thus impenetrable, but Castiel had learned that even the most seemingly impermeable barrier had weak points through which his telekinetic touch could worm. The walls surrounding him were well constructed but, feeling along them, Castiel found several chinks through which a narrow thread of mental power should be able to pass.

Except it couldn't.

 _Something_ blocked Castiel's reach beyond the barriers.

In a lifetime spent fighting Heaven's enemies, Castiel had yet to encounter such a preventative. Another telekinetic could stop him, of course, interfere or block his access, but there'd have to be person present directing the power. There was no one else there – of that Castiel was certain.

A niggling sense that something was wrong, something was _off_ , caused his nose to twitch, his eyes to scrunch. The smell was certainly _not_ his imagination; the air was thick with the dampness of earth, but there was more to the aroma. Castiel had been around death uncountable times and he couldn't escape the rancid stink of it here. Frowning, he stretched out his powers once more, was blocked once more, and realized what was not as it should be.

There was light hitting his closed eyelids.

Alarmed, Castiel opened them. A containment symbol was etched into the wall, glowing as it restrained Castiel's abilities. He barely held back the curse that sprang to his lips, and he bolted for the door upstairs, taking the steps two at a time, using telekinesis to ensure that his steps were quiet – steadying the boards to prevent squeaks or clatters, deadening the air to dull the clomp of his boots against wood. The door flew open for him and he burst out and sprinted down the hallway toward the kitchen. There was no danger of such a symbol trapping him – Castiel was not possessed, was not a _creature_ , he was human and thus immune to such spellwork – but whoever had created and placed the symbol might know when it was activated, might come to investigate. Breathing hard, Castiel skidded to a halt beside the back door, straining to hear and interpret every faint sound as he listened for footsteps, for an outcry, for any sign that his actions had disturbed the household.

None came. The halls of Lady Sands manor were impossibly, eerily silent.

Only when Castiel was sure he was alone did he steal into the night, return through the stable, and escape in to the streets of Lawrence. Though he spent long minutes waiting, the time passed quickly. Every sense was on high alert, and Castiel's thoughts turned over the new information he'd gleaned.

He still didn't have confirmation that Lady Sands was the evil he sought, but the unfamiliar symbol he'd seen bore every hallmark of demonic work. Someone who had access to the home had placed it – a guest, a servant, a family member, a workman. Further, it had been placed specifically to prevent magical or mental intrusion into whatever lay beyond. If the basement truly was only the tiny space Castiel had observed, no such containment symbol would have been necessary. Someone had something to hide. Castiel had proof that there was something abyssal at work in Lady Sands' home. Castiel had a definitive lead.

Finally.

Walking briskly towards his room, Castiel hoped that the Lady decided that "Steven Castle" was prime clerk material. He needed more time to investigate, more leeway to explore, and if he wasn't in her employ the task would be much more challenging. The first snowflakes of winter sifted through the night, though clouds only partially obscured the sky and the moon yet shone brightly. For the first time since he arrived, Castiel thought Lawrence not so unpleasant. Late, in the darkness and the frigid cold, with hardly a soul on the streets, he could pretend it wasn't a cesspool of misery and inequity and iniquity. Still, the sooner he uncovered the demon he sought and banished it to the hell from which it had risen, the better. There was too much evil loose in the world for Castiel to waste too long on any one mission.

Reflecting on his actions of the night, Castiel wondered, not for the first time, if he was part of the evil loose on the world. He felt guilty for seducing Ava, guilty for breaking in, guilty for suspecting Lady Sands despite the evidence exculpating her.

A single day of success, and Castiel already felt the need to unburden his sins again.

Perhaps, tomorrow, he would call on the Sin Eater once again.

* * *

Endnote: I will likely have a second new chapter out by the end of today, as I've already written most of the first draft of one. After that, hopefully, I'll feel well enough to resume work on Halflings, which I'm still hoping to have finished by the end of October.

Thanks for your patience with me folks.I really am trying to wrap up my existing WIP with the plan of then only focusing on one story at a time, instead of maintaining several different stories. I...might keep working on this through November. No promises, though.

Also as a general warning, this story is going to be very dark. Note that I've added another major Archive Warning (Graphic Depictions of Violence) and there is likely to be onscreen torture.

(VAGUE SPOILERS) Further, based on current plans, I cannot promise a happy ending on this one. Don't get me wrong - it's not going to be disastrous, and Dean and Castiel will end up together, but the ending will be dark as well. It's not gonna be a happy fun times every thing turns out great kind of ending.


	4. Chapter 4

I've edited my outline for this story to reflect my current plans for the plot. Based on that, I'm estimating 18 chapters total and around 100,000 words. Of course I always underestimate, so.

* * *

No one had visited Dean in two days.

The first had been a fluke – it was unusual for him to receive no visitors, but not unheard of. The vagaries of chance meant that some days, no one came to Unburden themselves, and other days so many came that they lined up on the road outside his hut and Dean scarce had time to sleep. That night, a light snow began to fall, and by the next day a half foot of snow covered the ground. A thin drift made a half-moon around the entrance to Dean's hovel, blown in by the wind through his empty doorway, sifting through the cracks between the boards. Harsh winters were, in some ways, a reprieve for Dean. They dampened the rank smell, fewer visitors came to see him, he had a ready supply of water, and snow around his abode provided insulation from the cold. However, it was not far enough into the season for those benefits to accrue, so instead Dean had the worst combination of all: no water, no food, and cold so biting that the tips of his fingers were blue and numb.

Maybe, if he were lucky, he'd die before anyone came to Unburden themselves.

The thought had no sooner struck him than he heard the crunch-crunch-crunch of booted feet striding through soft-layered snow. Dean didn't move. If it was a stranger passing down the Free Way, they'd walk by. Dean wasn't sure which he'd prefer – if they were there to see him, or if they were not. Folded in on himself to preserve warmth, knees tucked against his chest, arms wrapped around his legs, icy hands tucked between his thighs, face resting on the crevice formed by his knees, eyes fixed on the road outside, Dean waited.

The blue-eyed stranger – Castiel – came into view, approached the doorway and stopped. He was bundled against the cold; a thick, knobby, ill-made purple scarf was wrapped around his neck, a clashing green hat on his head, and a coat and mittens and boots protected torso and extremities. Their eyes met. Castiel's narrowed, his nose wrinkled, and without a word, he turned and left. If he weren't so thirsty, if the cold hadn't frozen the moisture out of him, Dean would have cried. Rejected wordlessly by the only person who had shown him kindness in so, so long! He'd thought himself beyond such pain, but apparently not. Some desperate part of him clung to the hope that someone might care enough to help him, had briefly clung to the hope that Castiel might be that person. As the sound of Castiel walking faded into the distance, that hope died, and Dean supposed forlornly that, once again, _all_ hope was dead. He _hoped_ it was. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his empty stomach, Dean fought against the tears that burned in his eyes. Optimism was awful. Burying himself in his mind, pushing away physical and mental anguish, Dean explored his thoughts for every shred of desire and expunged it, like searching a home and blowing out the candles one by one until nothing but darkness remained.

"It's dangerous to sleep in this weather," rumbled a low voice. Starting, Dean's eyes flew open and he blinked against watery daylight that burned his eyes. He hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep. Bleary-eyed, he looked up but all he could make out was a black shape silhouetted against the sky.

" 'm sorry," Dean mumbled. " 'an I help you?" He blinked, and the man was before him, the man was _touching_ him. Startled, alarmed, terrified of what thoughts might spill over from his mind to the man's while Dean's self-control was frayed, he scrambled away. There wasn't enough space in the shack for Dean to actually escape, but the figure accepted Dean's desire, dropped his hands, and didn't pursue him.

"You were…gone…for a few seconds and I was worried," said the stranger. "Does no one care that you might freeze to death?"

Not a stranger. It was Castiel. Castiel had returned. Dean had no words; he stared at the apparition before him, agog and dazed. Could it be another hallucination? Saints knew Dean had hallucinated succor time and time again, but the delusions always faded with a fresh infusion of demon's blood. It had only been a week since Lady Sands' last visit. Dean had never suffered visions so soon after replenishing himself, but perhaps something had changed this time, or something had gone awry, or Lady Sands had found some new means of tormenting him, or—

"Sin Eater?" asked Castiel.

"What?" Dean started again. "I'm sorry."

"No," Castiel snapped. Dean huddled further into his corner, anticipating a blow to accompany the harsh word. "You owe me no apologies. _You_ have done nothing wrong. It is for the people who have reduced you to this to apologize – to me, to you, to all right-thinking people everywhere. You deserve…" Castiel shook his head, mouth compressed in a tight line. "I should not have touched you without permission."

"It doesn't matter," muttered Dean.

 _This is a hallucination. This is a fantasy. Dammit, why won't you leave me alone?_

"It does," Castiel replied, unequivocal, angry. Dean flinched. "My sense is that the people of Lawrence have taken from you without remorse – taken your dignity, your livelihood, your respectability and self-respect. They have taken and taken and taken, until you felt you _deserved_ to be taken from, until you felt it was your _duty_ to give that which has been stolen from you, your duty to accept deprivation and abuse at their hands. It is _not_ your duty. I've traveled the world and I've never seen a Sin Eater treated as you are. I refuse to be like and yet I intruded on your personal space uninvited. I'm sorry, Sin Eater. It was wrong of me."

 _There's absolutely no way this is real. It can't be. No one could believe such drivel about me. Everyone in Lawrence knows that I deserve precisely how I've been treated. Many believe, accurately, that I should be treated worse yet. I am tainted, twisted, broken, unclean._

 _My hallucinations often take on the appearance of people I know._

 _Many have spoken what they claimed was sense, words I knew to be untrue as I know Castiel's words to be untrue._

"May I touch you, Sin Eater?"

 _But all knew my name. All used personal information to sharpen their knives and dig deeper into my heart. All planted barbs that stung my mind and my flesh. Regardless of how kind their words appeared on the surface, all sought ultimately to hurt me._

"Why?" asked Dean.

 _Phantasms can't touch me. Even when the symptoms have been most grave my visions have coaxed and taunted but I've never manifest the illusion of touch._

 _I don't_ feel _sick._

"I would like to help you, if I may," Castiel explained. He gestured toward a bundle of things sitting beside the door that Dean hadn't noticed. "I've brought things – a new bucket for you, some clothing, some food. It's not much, but—" He broke off as Dean lunged across the room, knocking his wobbly table aside in his haste. His joints locked, refused to unbend, as hours of cold inactivity took their toll, and he sprawled and groaned, fingers yet fumbling forward, reaching for the things Castiel claimed to have brought. "Sin Eater!" Castiel reached for him. Dean saw the movement as through a cracked lens, disjointed and ghostly and most definitely hallucinatory. The hand looked eerily skeletal in the dimming winter light. Dean couldn't bear to think what might happen if it touched him.

" _Stop_ ," he croaked.

Castiel froze.

 _My hallucinations have never heeded me. They've have never obeyed my wishes. They take cruel delight in ignoring my pleas, tormenting me as I torment the people of Lawrence torment me, as Lady Sands torments me, as I torment myself_

"What were you trying to accomplish?" asked Castiel. "May I help?" There were so many emotions overlaying his voice that Dean couldn't interpret them all. Dean didn't answer. He needed proof that Castiel was real, that the things Castiel had _brought_ were real, and though he couldn't explain how or why, he knew that the difference between touching those things himself and Castiel handing them to him was the difference between sanity and lunacy. Straining, reaching, for once Dean was thankful for the confinement of his cramped quarters ensuring that nothing was far out of reach. His fingers brushed wood and felt nothing.

 _It was a hallucination after all_.

With a broken cry straight from his broken soul, Dean knocked the non-existent bucket aside. It tumbled over, contents spilling out. An apple rolled across the floor, a blanket fell across Dean's arm, a faint smell he couldn't identify but that wasn't rot, wasn't feces, wasn't urine, wasn't scum, struck his nose, and the fight went of Dean. Tears filled his eyes.

"Sin Eater…" Castiel said sadly. "Please…"

"It's real," whispered Dean. A hoarse sob burbled in his throat. "It's all real. _You're_ real."

"Yes," Castiel said, squatting beside Dean and gathering up the fallen gifts carefully. "I'm real, Sin Eater. I'd like to help you, if you'll permit me to do so. May I touch you?"

"Dean," Dean breathed. Castiel blinked at him uncertainly. "My name. My name is Dean. And…and…please…"

Dean literally _could not_ remember the last time anyone had touched him aside from to take his hands for the Unburdening or to strike a blow because he'd displeased them. The prospect of Castiel doing so _terrified_ him. Cowering, Dean steeled himself.

 _Don't touch me – don't touch me – no, no, no—_

But Dean didn't ask Castiel to stop.

Gently, slowly, telegraphing his movements, Castiel reached out and laid a hand on Dean's arm. Dean cringed. He had to protect himself, he had to curl away.

 _This isn't real. That isn't warm. That isn't touch. Even if it is real, it's only a prelude of what is to come. When he realizes how repulsive I am, he'll rebuke me – strike me – he'll destroy me. It'll be so easy for him now that I've let him in._

Castiel didn't move away. He didn't rebuke Dean. He didn't raise a fist in anger.

His blue eyes gathered the light, his eyes narrowed, the corners crinkled, deep lines formed on his cheeks, and he _smiled_.

Dean shattered. With a wail, he threw himself away, rolled over the floor, struck the far wall of his hovel so forcibly that a board was knocked loose and snow dribbled on to his head, melted into his hair. Unable to find the strength, the cognizance, to rise, Dean scrambled across the floor, curled in on himself in a tight ball on his side on the floor and sobbed against his knees.

 _This isn't real. Things like this don't happen to me. This isn't real. Nobody touches me. This isn't real. Nobody smiles at me. This isn't real. He isn't real. This isn't real. This isn't real. Thisisnotrealthisisnotrealthisisnotrealthisisnot—_

An arm wrapped around him, a warm body lined up with his, and a gorgeous, deep voice whispered salvation in Dean's ear.

"I'm real, Dean. My name is Castiel, and I'm really, truly here, and I really, truly will help you." The words muddled and blurred, hardly distinguishable over Dean's choked, ragged cries, but Castiel said them again and again, repeatedly them until Dean could have spoken along with him if only his throat wasn't destroyed, repeated them until every time Castiel said _real_ the solidness of the word reverberated through Dean's brain. He couldn't have said when his tears subsided. His body was wracked by cold, riven by tremors, paralyzed by the thoughts that whispered that this might yet all be a lie, but slowly Castiel's promise, repeated like a prayer, grounded Dean, brought him back to himself.

If Dean moved, the illusion would shatter.

"Dean?"

Dean opened his mouth to reply but his lips were gummy, his tongue parched, and no sound came out. Instead, Dean reached out tentatively and set a shaking hand on Castiel's jacket. It felt real. He had feeling back in his fingers, warmth returned by Castiel's intimate embrace.

 _He_ touched _me. He held me. I am filthy, soiled, disgusting. He'll have to burn that jacket after this._

"When was the last time you had anything to eat or drink?" Castiel's voice broke through his self-condemnation like salvation.

 _If only he could stay forever._

 _This is the nicest hallucination I've ever had. Maybe I'll get lucky and from now on they'll all be like this._

 _Slim chance of that._

"Dunno." Dean's voice cracked. He'd managed to break the ice in his bowl into chips that he'd sucked on until they melted and chilled him through, but that meager supply had run out and there'd been no one to bring him more. He'd scraped up a little of the snow that drifted through his doorway, but when he'd melted it and tried to drink it, it had been more dirt than water.

"Days."

Castiel shuddered and, skin-to-skin, Dean could feel Castiel's horror, his disgust, his worry, like the scrape of sharp nails on tender skin. Dean tried to pull away, to relieve Castiel of Dean's revolting touch, but Castiel's arm stiffened, tightened, pressed their bodies closer together.

"I don't understand," Dean whispered.

"It sickens me that you are treated this way," breathed Castiel.

"You don't know me," said Dean harshly, but he was too weak – physically, mentally – to push Castiel away. Warmth and contact felt so _nice_. Going without it when Castiel left would be even worse. Pushing at Castiel's mind, Dean picked up traces of his surface thoughts, confirming what Castiel had said. Castiel wasn't disgusted with Dean. He was disgusted with the people of Lawrence. "Who _are_ you?"

"With your permission, here's what I would like to do," Castiel said as if Dean hadn't spoken. "I've brought blankets, warm clothing, food, a razor, a new privy bucket. I'll fetch water, for you to drink, for you to clean yourself, for you to wash the waste from your home, and give you privacy to change. If you'd like my help with any of these tasks, I am at your disposal. Is there anything else you'd like to ease the burdens you've shouldered?"

"Why are you doing this? What do you want?" Dean protested.

"I'm sorry I've aroused your suspicions," said Castiel with a sigh. "If you'd prefer I not act on your behalf, I'll stop."

"No!"

 _Yes, you have to stop. I cannot come to expect this. I cannot come to rely on this. I cannot come to want this. I cannot come to hope for this._

 _I cannot have this._

 _I cannot deserve this._

Castiel moved away, and Dean couldn't repress a whimper, wondering if he'd spoken his reservations aloud or if Castiel had telepathically sensed them. Castiel made a soothing sound, though, removed his jacket, hat and scarf and wrapped them around Dean. Castiel's body heat suffused the garments, and Dean burrowed into them, pulling them tight around his thin limbs. Unable to stop himself, hoping that Castiel did not see, he nuzzled at the thick nobby wool of Castiel's scarf, inhaling the musky smell that permeated it, a sweet hint of chamomile making a heady combination.

 _My mother used to put sprigs of herbs in our drawers to freshen our clothing, drown out the smell of waste the washwater inevitably left behind._

 _I don't want to remember._

 _I don't want to be Dean Winchester._

 _I am no one but the Sin Eater. I am nothing but the Sin Eater._

Wide-eyed, confused, Dean watched Castiel leave the cabin and return moments later with a bucket of pristine water. No local pump produced such clean liquid. And it was _warm_. Dizzy with thirst, Dean jammed his face against the top of the bucket and guzzled water desperately. The heat of it spread throughout his body gloriously. Dean would have loved it, except he knew that once the warmth dissipated he'd feel the cold even more acutely.

 _Enjoy it while I can._

 _Am I allowed to do that?_

When Dean looked up from drinking, paused to breathe, Castiel stood in the doorway, affixing a new piece of cloth to the top of the doorway, hammer making a dull thud at every strike against a nail, entire edifice shaking and rattling at the blows. The interior of the hovel seemed warmer than Dean remembered, and an icy wind blew in and drew tears out of Dean's stinging eyes. There was no other reason for the tears. None at all.

"You don't have to…" Dean trailed off as Castiel looked up at him. Without his winter clothing on, he looked slimmer, though still grown, still strong, still broad-shouldered. The exposed skin of his lower arms and neck was bumped from the cold, his eyes gathered the light and reflected blue, and his lips were quirked in a faint smile. He wasn't holding a hammer. Dean hadn't a guess what Castiel had used to drive the nails in. It didn't matter, he supposed, as long as the blanket stayed in place. As long as no other loving, caring member of Lawrence society decided that Dean had overstepped his place and tore the blanket down, broke the new bucket, stole the food, pissed in the water, ripped the clothes from Dean's back.

All had happened to him before.

All had happened to him _many times_ before. More than he could count. More than he could remember.

 _How long_ have _I been here?_

 _It doesn't matter. I can never leave._

 _I should give him back his coat. He's cold_.

The thought was loud in his head but Dean's body refused to act, his hands instead grasping the edges of the jacket and tugging it more snuggly around his body. Castiel gave him an encouraging smile.

"I'll fetch more water," said Castiel, oblivious to the disorder he'd thrown Dean into.

In that moment, Dean hated him.

Castiel returned with a bucket of inexplicably steaming hot water. He set it down on the ground beside where Dean sat, rifled through the pile of things he'd brought and offered Dean a small square of cloth. Dean stared at it blankly, then up at Castiel.

"Towel?"

"Oh."

"I'll give you some privacy, and make sure no one comes in," Castiel said, smile broadening to a grin, thoughts projecting soothing calm, as he swept the new-hung cloth aside and stepped outside.

Dean's eyes never left him. Castiel's hips swayed as he walked, the cloth shifted in the breeze as it fell back into place, and Castiel's boots remained visible, as the cloth ended several inches above the ground. The material of the towel was soft against his hand. Thick grime caked Dean's fingers.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd washed.

With shaking hands, Dean set the cleaning rag down and began the laborious process of removing the rags he wore. The only ones easily taken off were those wrapped around his penis and butt, as he had to take those off to use the bathroom. Everything else was looped around his body to hold the tatters in place, wrapped and re-wrapped, so soaked in filth that the seams had long ago vanished, held in place by the accumulated sweat of years. Frustration built as Dean failed to find his way out of the garments. The water was cooling, Castiel was waiting outside patiently, and Dean wasn't even competent to remove his own clothing. Finally, frustrated, he went to the curtain and swept it to the side. Pain thrilled a warning through his nerves and flared in the tips of his fingers, the only part of him that crossed the line of the doorway.

"Castiel?" Dean asked. Castiel turned instantly, concern and worry on his face. Embarrassment nearly drove Dean back without explaining himself.

"Yes?"

"Do ya think…maybe…could you help me?" mumbled Dean. Castiel quirked his head and frowned. "Never mind. I—"

"Of course," said Castiel. He stepped within. "What may I do for you, Dean?" Shame choked the words off unsaid. Dean hung his head. Castiel's frown deepened. _Here it comes_ … "The water has grown cold." A burst of heat issued from the top of the bucket and steam roiled and coiled away from the liquid.

"What…? How…?" Dean shook his head. "No, it was fine. I shouldn't have…I'm sorry, I…"

"Dean," Castiel said harshly. Dean flinched. "I'm not angry. I'm not inconvenienced. Tell me what you need. Please."

Battling his mortification, Dean whispered, "I can't take my clothing off." Castiel blinked at him and laughed, and Dean flinched again.

"I'm sorry – I didn't mean…" Castiel shook his head. "Don't be embarrassed. This isn't your fault. None of this is your fault. And I truly am happy to help. Here, let me try."

For several minutes, Castiel fought with the layered rags as Dean had, but he too gave up with a helpless laugh. His hands had grown browned and dirty from his efforts, and Dean tried not to look, tried not to think.

 _Stop him. This isn't real. I can't let him soil himself. He should leave. Why is he here? What does he want? This can't be real. Stop him._

"…?" Castiel had spoken to him, Dean realized belatedly, gazing at him as if expecting an answer. "Dean?"

 _Why am I fighting this so hard?_

"Did you hear me?"

 _Why am I arguing, resisting, ashamed?_

"May I use the razor to cut away the cloth?"

 _I have accepted without question so much rancor, so much violence, so much humiliation._

"I'll be careful, but I fear these garments are unsalvageable."

 _All Castiel seeks to do is touch me, aid me, succor me._

"Is that alright?"

 _Why is that my breaking point?_

"Dean?"

 _Why is that one act of violence too far?_

"I fear my enthusiasm has pushed you too hard, too fast. I'm sorry. There's no call to do anything you don't wish to do simply to oblige me."

 _Kindness towards me is an act of violence, a promise of better things to come that can never be delivered on._

"Cut it away," said Dean quietly. "Cut everything away."

 _This is how it feels to be broken._

It took an hour to clean the accumulated filth of years from Dean's body. The razor made short work of the cloth encasing Dean's body and Castiel stripped away the layers as easily as he'd stripped away Dean's defenses. When the last shreds of fabric fell away, Castiel offered to step away and give Dean privacy. Unbelievably exposed, temporarily impervious to the cold, unashamed of his nudity, Dean couldn't find the words to ask Castiel to stay, couldn't find the words to ask yet more of the strange man who kept _giving_ as if Dean was someone worthy of receiving _._ Reading Dean's reluctance, Castiel gently guided Dean through a series of questions, coaxed Dean into admitting that he wanted help scrubbing his damaged, painful skin, and then used the soft cloth and the gloriously warm water to create Dean anew.

There were places where Dean's skin was so damaged it sloughed off under gentle scrubbing, water removing dirt and flesh alike. There were places where open sores broke and bled, dirt and scab indistinguishable as Castiel attempted to clean him. There were places where dry flakes of skin fell away when a hand ran over his flesh, a thin snow that drifted to the floor. Castiel's expression remained studied, neutral, and his thoughts maintained a constant veneer of reassurance and support unlike anything Dean had sensed in the years since Lady Sands' blood first enhanced his telepathic abilities. When the last of the water dripped clean from Dean's skin, when Castiel had refilled and somehow heated the water for the dozenth time, Castiel sat Dean down on his knees, placed a finger beneath his chin to tilt Dean's head towards the fading light of afternoon, and used the razor to shave the scratchy, scraggly hairs from Dean's face.

"You're so young," breathed Castiel, wonder and horror in equal parts in his voice. "How old – how long – no. I'm sorry. It's none of my business."

"I'd tell you if I knew the answers," Dean whispered. Solemnly, Castiel offered Dean the replacement clothes he'd brought. None were new, all were worn, and none were well made. In each selection, Dean saw how sensible and wise Castiel was. Castiel _could_ have bought him nice clothes. He could clearly spare the money, and as incredible and inexplicable as Dean found it, Castiel cared enough to go to the trouble and expense. Yet, he hadn't done so. Somehow, he'd intuited that anything nice Dean was given would be taken away, but by buying him regular things, Dean at least had a chance of retaining them.

At least, Dean chose to interpret Castiel's clothing selection as such. He didn't risk asking and having the pleasant fantasy disrupted.

"Do you have any family?" Castiel asked. Pointlessly, Castiel turned to give Dean privacy as he donned the garments, as if he hadn't scrubbed dried feces from Dean's pubic hair, hadn't gently worked water between Dean's flaccid penis and foreskin to clean out the accumulated gunk.

"No."

 _Mama, her eyes averted from me, weeping in Papa's arms as he told me he only had one son. Sammy running after me, asking why I was leaving, asking why Papa had said that. I told him I had no brother. I told him I hated him. He stopped chasing me then. He was too young to understand what I'd become but I'm sure Mama and Papa have since explained it to him. I'll never see any of them again. I never want to see any of them again. I never want any of them to see me like this_.

Dean's chest ached.

Castiel didn't pursue the question.

The breeches Castiel had given him were too big, the tunic shirt and jacket hung from his slim shoulders, but Dean didn't complain. He used draw strings to cinch the clothes tighter and luxuriated in the feeling of clean fabric against his clean skin.

"Did you come today to Unburden yourself?" Dean asked, desperate to divert Castiel's intense focus from him.

Turning back to him, Castiel frowned. "I didn't aid you expecting anything in return," he said.

"But you do have sins to confess?"

There was a troubled pause, then, "yes."

Relief nearly put Dean on his knees. That Castiel would do much to help him for no reason was unfathomable. At least if Castiel had sins to Unburden, Dean had some idea of the ulterior motive behind his kindnesses. The confusion that had left him stunned since Castiel's arrival faded, his head cleared, as events settled into a pattern he was familiar with. Righting his table and kneeling behind it, Dean retrieved his worn, chipped bowl, and solemnly held it out to Castiel.

For long moments, Castiel stared. His thoughts read as blank. Finally, he settled on his knees opposite Dean and produced a bottle of fresh milk and a half dozen unblemished apples from the bucket of goods he'd brought.

 _I bet he has some truly terrible sin to confess. That's why he's done so much for me._

Dean set the bowl aside and offered Castiel his hands. Castiel's eyes slid shut as he slipped warm fingers into Dean's clean, bare palms.

A vision burst instantly into stunning, all-encompassing reality. Intense pleasure, disconnected from reality, bombarded Dean as he made love to a young woman. Sexual sins always made him uncomfortable. He'd never been with a woman or a man, had never desired to be with a woman or a man, but in doing his duties as Sin Eater he had lain with men and women, as a man and as a woman, uncountable times. His perception of those events mirrored that of those who had actually engaged in them, and so he could remember with equal clarity lying in secret with a man he loved, cheating on a spouse, and raping a young woman. When he'd first started as Sin Eater, reliving the sexual encounters of others had sometimes aroused him, but he'd never felt comfortable acting on that, and it had been years now since he'd experienced an erection, years since desire had stirred in his gut, years since he'd thought himself capable of any form of intimacy, physical and mental, with another person.

Castiel was different.

Castiel had shattered the divide between the sinner's perception of pleasure and Dean's perception of pleasure.

Experiencing sexual contact with the young woman through Castiel's eyes, Dean didn't feel aroused.

"Two nights ago, I made love to a servant girl and pretended that I cared for her," Castiel intoned.

Dean felt angry, bitter, lonely. He felt like an intruder. He _did not_ want to know that Castiel had enjoyed lying in the arms of the woman.

"I didn't, though," said Castiel. "My work frequently requires such actions from me, but I always feel bad, always feel like I've taken advantage of what has been offered to me willingly by my partner."

With a jolt, Dean realized that what he felt, as he relived Castiel's hips thrusting his cock deep into the woman's vagina, as he relived her breathy, soft moans and felt hot breath moistening his skin, was _jealousy_.

 _Why?_

"I can't do what I must while burdened with this guilt."

Resisting the urge to strike the entire memory from Castiel's mind, Dean continued his dual role as participant and observer. The woman climaxed, back arching, legs wrapped around Castiel's hips working to push Castiel into her body, and Dean waited with dread for the finale of the memory. It didn't come. Castiel didn't come. Instead, with her satisfied, he stopped. The woman truly held no interest to him whatsoever.

 _She was simply a means to an end,_ Castiel's voice whispered heartlessly.

Castiel took no action that wasn't calculated.

 _Am I also a means to an end? What end? I have nothing of any value to offer. But he must have a reason._

With hardly a thought, Dean excised Castiel's guilt, took it upon himself. The jolt of pain that came from activating his telepathy was welcome. After so much kindness, Dean felt _false_ , _wrong_. The pain grounded him, reminded him of who he was, _why_ he was, and what he actually deserved.

"Thank you for your offering," Dean whispered. "You are Unburdened."

"Thank you, Dean." Castiel rose and stepped to the new curtain, but he paused, one hand resting on the wood of the door frame, features macabrely lit by the glow of Dean's containment symbol. "Would it be too much of an imposition if I stopped by tomorrow?"

 _Yes, please, that would be wonderful._

"It is my duty to be available at all times to help the people of Lawrence bear the burdens of existence," recited Dean.

 _No. I never want to see you again._

"Not to Unburden myself. To check on you."

 _It was clear when I was in his mind that he does nothing without reason._

"I'm not a child, Castiel," said Dean. "I can take care of myself."

 _There must be something he seeks by helping me._

"Of course you can. But that doesn't mean you should have to. I won't come if you'd prefer I not, though."

The thought was strangely comforting.

"It's fine. Come or don't come. I don't care."

Dean did care. He wanted Castiel to come. He wanted Castiel to care. He wanted to be able to help Castiel, to be useful to someone for something other than his demon-granted telepathy.

"I'll see you then."

Castiel turned and left.

As Dean had feared, the cabin felt desolate in Castiel's absence.

Once Castiel was done using Dean, he'd leave and never return. Dean mustn't let the short term care and companionship damage his ability to deal with the harsh realities of his solitary life.

But at least he was clean, and warm, and clothed. At least he had a new bucket. At least someone cared enough, for whatever reason, to come to the Sin Eater two days in a row.

No, whatever Dean suspected about Castiel, he was certain of one thing:

Castiel was coming to see _Dean_ two days in a row.

Comforted, warmed through, Dean curled into the corner of his hut, wrapped his warm jacket around his knees, and stared contemplatively at his door, occasionally brushing his hand over his clean shaven cheek and remembering fondly how nice Castiel's fingers had felt against his skin.

Perhaps, for once, winter would not be so bleak.

* * *

Endnote: I've got no idea when I'll next update this. It might actually be pretty soon, but don't be shocked if it's not.

For progress updates, fanart, and more, follow me on Tumblr at unforth-ninawaters dot tumblr dot com..


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